


Damaged Goods

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, SladeRobin Week, Threats of Violence, Villains Won, proceed at your own risk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-05 03:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: Batman, Gotham's savior and protector, infamous vampire hunter, has finally fallen. Slade should have been pleased with the outcome. He took an active part on it, after all. Only, the ruins are still smoking. Cries and savage laughter are echoing within the walls of the castle on the hills.This doesn't feel like victory.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!~
> 
> Welcome to my first entry for SladeRobin Week 2019! This will be a two-chapter story, and the second chapter will be posted later this week (I imagine it's not hard to figure which will be the prompt for Chapter 2 XD).
> 
> Day 3 - Chosen prompt: **"Everything has a price."**
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! :)

It was quiet that night. After so, so many nights.

In the aftermath of ten days of unrelenting sacking, most of the fires had worn out. The smoke, of course, hadn’t retreated yet. It embraced the city, suffocating those unfortunate souls the fates hated as much as to keep trapped in there.

Barely one third of Gotham’s residents had managed to flee the slaughter.

Slade would bet all his earnings out of this that the Bat had never seen that coming; all his enemies secretly reaching to a reluctant, albeit fragile, truce. It was quite shocking, considering that all those freaks hated each other almost as much as they hated Gotham’s fierce guardian, and didn’t trust each other one bit. And yet, there they were, all of them. Actually working together to accomplish the one thing in which they’d all failed in the past, both individually, and in small groups; remove the constant burden of the Batman. Set themselves free. Demons, released, completely unchained, free to ravish anything and anyone in their way. Spread havoc and doom into the world.

Sionis and Cobblepot themselves approached him one night (he’d been in Blüdhaven, caught into mercenary business at that time). They explained the situation and offered an astounding amount of wealth in gold, silver, gems, blood slaves or _‘anything else he would ask for’_ in exchange for his services, which they very well knew, always came with a high price. Slade wouldn’t say no to valuables or to a well-trained blood slave, but there was only one thing he _really_ wanted, for a very long time now. Once he’d let them know, they’d instantly accepted.

And so, the deal was sealed.

It was good bargain. Apart from the rewards, ending Batman would be convenient. The man was the world’s most successful hunter of his kind. He was his problem as well, a blade he’d rather not have constantly hanging over his head.

Their plan was good, he had to admit. They wanted him to make sure Batman’s most prominent allies would be unable to come to his aid in his hour of greatest need. Specifically, Slade had to make sure they were all busy enough in their own districts.

Sinking entire cities into chaos was definitely not a simple task, but he’d managed quite well. Lighting flames in the seedy, miserable lower classes never took long. Manipulating his own kind, sending them into bloodthirsty rampages also wasn’t a particularly big deal -they’d always been looking for an excuse to asset their dominance and superiority over humans. Hunting was nature to them, after all. Creating, enhancing or reviving old, forgotten conflicts, all through the darkness, had been weirdly satisfying, too. Each city had its own dirty, secret weaknesses. Knowing how to manipulate those was complicated, but extremely efficient. Definitely worth the trouble.

The rogues swore he wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty in Gotham, though. Those freaks wanted the city, as well as their fallen enemy, for themselves, and Slade was fine with that. He didn’t care to be the one to deliver the final blow. Things between them had never gotten too personal anyway, and he’d never developed sadistic tendencies, in all the years of his existence. They could have the man, and anything else they wanted.

As long as _he_ got the boy.

He wasn’t there when the Batman fell. He’d been miles away, in a small town near Metropolis. For ten nights in a row, he was able to see the smoke rising from miles away. And as he got closer, night by night… inevitably, he came across the hordes of the refugees, abandoning the city. Walking. Getting away. Homeless, shocked, and lost. Really… lost. Their faces confused, unfocused, as if they still hadn’t quite realized what had happened. That this was not a nightmare.

Those that had each other were the lucky ones. But there were also children, alone. A very small girl holding her older brother’s hand. No parents to be found. Old people, close to crumbling down at any moment. Loners, that looked like they’d lost their minds.

And he kept getting closer. And soon, he could also see the flames. Hear all the devastating dread.

This wasn’t new. This was how things worked in this world. This was happening everywhere, all the time. It wasn’t new. The rogues, combining their powers, had proven stronger than their powerful adversary, and this was the outcome of his defeat.

And Slade still got closer. And closer.

It was quiet now. And yet, through that malevolent silence, phantoms of agonized screams haunted the land and the air.

Silence, as Slade rode his deeply unnerved horse in the empty, stained streets, through the smoky fog, humming a sound and murmuring an “easy, boy” to keep the stallion going.

He’d rather go around the city, avoiding this sight, but the way Gotham was built wouldn’t allow this. He had to cross the city to get to the hills, to Wayne Castle.

The Wayne Castle. Now, wasn’t _that_ special. Bruce Wayne, the Duke of Gotham, wealthiest man in the realm (even more so than the King himself), first of his name and last of his bloodline… and Batman. The vigilante. The vampire slayer. The living legend. Gotham’s dutiful protector and watchful guardian.

Safe to say, it was something nobody expected. He himself got informed over it through a brief letter, sent to him by his current employers. It was announcing both the man’s death, and his real identity. It rose a million questions, of course, but… it didn’t really matter anymore. He was gone now. Gone forever.

He’s not sure why the thought bothers him.

The letter also included word about the status of a list of the most prominent allies to the Bat. Commander of the City Watch, James Gordon, the war hero -deceased. Batwoman, revealed to be Katherine Lyndia Kane, daughter and heiress to the famous Colonel Jacob Kane -deceased. Batgirl, revealed to be Barbara Gordon, daughter to Commander James Gordon -captured. Catwoman; Selina Kyle, a common woman, renowned in Gotham as a usual suspect for a great number of various criminal activities. Once an enemy, yet now an ally to the Bat -captured. Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler and steward -deceased.

And Robin; Richard John Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s adoptive son and heir. Captured.

His payment. His prize.

Slade turned his head slightly to the left, tracking a small, barely audible sound. His enhanced vision got him a glimpse of a Talon, half-hidden in the shadow of a building. Not surprising, for one of them to be out in the open. He supposed they had been raiding the city along with everyone else. Less expected was the fact that he was _scalping_ the corpse of a woman, being far too preoccupied with the task to even bother glancing at him.

Slade moved the horse ahead the road.

Death reigned that place, his crown made of thorns. The all-too familiar, gut-wrenching stench of decay and defeat had soaked the ground, the air, becoming one with them. Dead bodies were rotting everywhere in the streets, on plain sight. Piles of them, in some cases. Slade could almost feel the copper of all those gallons of blood spilled, in his tongue. Only this time, the taste did nothing to provoke the Thirst, the Need. It did anything _but_ tempt him. This was sick blood, cold, and spoiled. Stale, and rotten.

Gotham City laid lifeless in its ashes. Angels of doom played their macabre requiems upon the demise, through the terrifying silence.

Slade had been alive long enough to have seen that before; cities, kingdoms, realms, rising, thriving, and then falling apart once their moment in eternity had passed. Getting swallowed by darkness, and then sinking into oblivion. But this thing here… this was different.

This was a graveyard.

While approaching the eastern gate of the city, his eye caught sight of a little boy, no older than five, six years old. Thin and scrawny, he was kneeling beside a woman at the side of the street. Old dress, dirty mass of long, greasy auburn hair. She didn’t look injured, but… she _did_ look dead. The boy was holding her hand in his smaller one, steady and determined.

The price of their actions.

He should have simply passed by. Instead, he found himself moving the horse to that direction, led by something long forgotten, buried inside him, stinging his insides.

“Boy.”

The child looked up at him and rose on his feet. He took two small, uncertain steps towards him, and then stopped.

Despite the dirt covering him, and how skinny he was, it was evident this was one cute little boy. Rich, black, messy hair, pale skin and a truly remarkable pair of eyes; big, beautiful, sea-touched, a deep shade of blue, grey and green, covered by long, thick eyelashes. Smart face too, examining Slade quickly, with extreme caution and suspicion, head to toe. The gaze lingered a bit to his eyepatch. Slade knew this always made quite an intimidating impression to both people and other vampires. Let alone a small child, he imagined.

The real merciful thing would be to end the boy right there, quietly and efficiently, without any pain, instead of leaving him to, most probably, die a cruel, horrific death as prey to that Talon he met earlier nearby, or to one of the other, various monsters lurking in the ruins. Or due to starvation, maybe. Instead, Slade buried a hand to one pocket of his cloak and retracted a knife. One of his smaller ones, though not the smallest. Sharp, handle made of bone, not wood. Belonged to one of his recent victims.

He extended his hand, holding the knife by its blade to offer the handle to the boy. There was a moment of intense hesitation before the child’s little eyebrows knitted, and he bravely stepped forward. Slade leaned over a bit more (the boy wasn’t tall enough yet), allowing him to wrap one tiny fist around the handle and hold the knife carefully, looking up at Slade once more.

“Use this,” he advised, “and never hesitate. Others won’t.”

The boy said nothing. Merely stared at him, until Slade spurred the horse, making it gallop through the gate, away from the city.

He could see the lights of the Wayne Castle looming grimly in the distance.

* * *

The elegant iron gates hanged limply, one of them bent, rickety, the other completely ripped out of place, fallen over to the side. The Wayne monogram down in the dirt, sunk into the mud.

Slade had no idea as to how on earth they managed to wreck it that way, but he believes there’s a good chance Bane has something to do with it. His Giant descend, from his mother’s side, had given that beast of a man monstrous strength, to the point that far too many, even from Slade’s own kind, had lost their lives in his hands. Slade felt confident enough that he himself would probably be able to stand his ground, but didn’t intend to seek combat, unless absolutely necessary. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder over it.

Making an entrance to the yard… it was hard for anyone not to notice, even in this poorly lit hour of the night, the green inferno sprawling everywhere around, covering almost every single surface of any unnatural, human-made artifact that previously stood proudly, glorifying the magnificence of House Wayne. Even the castle itself -in its the lower parts, at least- is seemingly covered by long, wide, irregular stipes of richly bloomed ivy.

Second thing Slade realized was that his question regarding his supposed fight against Bane was doomed to go down eternally unanswered.

He halted the horse. There was a moment of stillness as he gazed at what he thought he was seeing. He waited until he was fairly certain that his remaining eye still maintained its sharp vision, before he drove the stallion to the left, towards the carcass of the half-Giant laying on the ground, wrapped in thick layers of moss. Even beneath those, and supposedly after the decay of an entire week, give or take, the damage was still quite evident. Open wounds, blackened or sickly green, infected by now. Bruising. And, ironically enough, one eye seems to be missing.

“Blood drinker.”

He took his time to dismount before turning to face the woman. Not a surprise. She might have not been anywhere to be seen before, but Slade had sensed the presence before he even entered the property.

“Witch,” he casually shot back.

Her steps were soft, barely audible even to him. Witches could be annoyingly stealthy when they wanted to, and the infamous Poison Ivy _was_ one of the best around. Her form looked stiff as she was approaching, lacking all bits of her usual, seductive grace. Lacking even those impressive plant tricks to mark her arrival. Long, scarlet hair hanged limply on her shoulders and back, and Slade thought she looked tired more than anything else.

“Well,” he scoffed, opening his hands widely. “Congratulations. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She stared at him blankly, still as statue, bright eyes glimmering like emerald stars in the darkness. “Late arrival.”

“Call me crazy, but I wasn’t really looking forward to see all your faces. Don’t be offended, though. Yours is certainly the prettiest.”

Ivy gazed at the distance, to the opposite direction than the castle. She didn’t look offended, she didn’t seem to feel… anything, really. She had the face of a person drained from all emotion, and it was… baffling, to say the least. Alerting, most certainly.

“What happened here?” he asked, pointing down at Bane’s rotting corpse. “The Bat took him along on his grand finale?”

She shook her head. “Batwoman,” she offered. “After the city fell, they retracted back here, shortly before we followed. She was here… by the gate. He destroyed it. Was the first one to get in. I don’t know how long they kept this going. She took him out before immediately succumbing to her own injuries.”

Slade hummed. A good, brave death for the woman. Remarkable achievement for any common human. “The other girl? Still alive?”

He noticed the way her jaw tightened. “She passed two days ago.”

Vague. Far too vague. Almost as if she didn’t want to share the details. “And _him_?” he pushed. “Who gave the final blow? The Jester, I presume?”

Ivy winced. Inhaled. “He’s dead.”

“… yes. I’ve been informed…”

“No, the Jester. He’s dead as well.”

Slade would never pretend this wasn’t satisfying to hear. That deranged, unspeakable creature, should have never been allowed to live this long in the first place. He had no idea how he came to existence in the first place, or who was the one to turn him, granting him the Dark Gift. Someone equally insane, he supposed.

He fully turned towards Ivy, his eyebrows knitted. The way she had spoken the words, felt… strange. “Took each other down as well?” he dared a guess. “Would be poetic.”

Their gazes crossed. Remained locked to each other for a few intense seconds. “They were fighting. Two-Face put an arrow through both of them,” her voice lets out. “It killed the Jester… but not the Knight.”

He huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck. It was deeply tempting to ask _what_ did, but he eventually decided to leave this be, for the time. He had no doubt he would be thoroughly informed, once inside.

Ivy closed the distance between them a bit more, stretching out one hand to gently brush her fingers through the horse’s mane. The mount whickered, taking a small step towards her, keening on the touch. “I’ll take him. You go,” she prompted. “They’re expecting you.”

Slade lifted an eyebrow. “You won’t be joining us?”

The witch elegantly moved the long fingers of her free hand in the air. A plant instantly sprouted from the ground, within seconds, reaching to the height of her waist. She cut off one already ripe fruit from its top and offered it to the animal, that accepted her offer eagerly, devouring from her hand. “I'm not setting a foot in there,” she swallowed.

Bored and irritated upon the mystery surrounding most of her words, Slade decided he’d find out on his own what this whole thing had been about, but before he turned his back on her, her voice echoed once more.

“You asked for the boy. Robin. Alive and unharmed.”

He crossed arms over his chest. “Yes. Why? Are you interested as well?”

Ivy’s eyes were still fixed on his horse. “Did you ever have a child?”

Slade stopped breathing. His eye narrowed, shooting daggers at her.

“When you were alive. Truly alive,” she insisted, “did you ever have a child?”

Slade didn’t have _a_ child. He had _children._ Sometimes, he even managed not thinking about them for a night or two.

He did have children. He had _family, _long ago. Decades… centuries ago. Not many people knew about them anymore, and he intended to keep it that way. Those memories, this pain, were his, only his, never to be shared with anyone. When he was lucky enough, the images were sustained mostly by feelings, sounds, moments; good moments, beautiful things. All around Grant’s defiance, and Joseph’s kindness, and Rose’s wit. Their strength, and smiles, and clever remarks. Their voices. Their eyes.

He was rarely lucky, though.

“What’s your point?” he drawled, sternly.

She finally looked up at him again. “Nothing in this world is for free. Everything has a price, and the highest prices we’ll be forced to pay, will be the ones over our sins.”

Slade chuckled coldly. “Who’s going to make us pay? The gods?”

“I neither know nor care about the gods. But the one thing I do believe in, is that whatever we give out in the world comes back to us. Nothing ever goes down unpunished. Yet there are some things… so… vile and despicable… that my mind cannot perceive a punishment fitting to those crimes.”

There are shouts suddenly, coming from the direction of main building. They both turn their heads, while the horse huffs and moves back awkwardly, evidently tensed. Slade hushes it, tugging at the reins.

Ivy’s eyes return to him. “I don’ know what you want with the child, and whatever it is, I’m certain no one will be able to stand in between, but… mercy is a virtue. If you did have children… and if you ever loved them… keep them in your mind now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! ^_^
> 
> Soooo, this is my last <strike>far too delayed</strike> entry for 2019's SladeRobin Week. XD
> 
> Day 7 - Chosen prompt: **Vampire AU**
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

Macabre as it was, his fallen enemies were the only ones greeting him at the entrance. What remained of them, anyway.

Six sharp, ebony spikes were lined up, three at each side of the gate. In a mockery of respect, the heads of the vigilantes pinned at the top of each were still masked. On the left side, Batman’s and Catwoman’s (apparently, she didn’t remain simply captured for too long), side by side, and one of a common man’s, that Slade assumes to be that so-called steward of the castle. And then, at the right, the ones of the allies. Batwoman, Commander Gordon, and Batgirl -his daughter.

No head was in even slightly decent state. Not even those of the ones that had passed later than the others -namely, Batgirl and Catwoman. On the contrary, actually. _These_ were the ones making the most horrifying sight.

Slade stood for a few moments, starring at the face of his adversary. Of this man that had proved to be his biggest trouble in his two hundred years of existence. The only human that ever fought him, and stood his ground, and lived through it, and even defeated him… _more_ than once. His silver blades had even managed to leave him with scars, in two of their many battles. One across his chest, the other lower, at his side. He could almost feel them itching now, as he gazed at what remained of their creator: nothing but a distorted face.

The eyes were closed. Skin sickly grey, ripped. Muscles drawn back. Flies and other insects were lurking all around, and at that very moment, he realized what exactly was it that he found to be so very annoying about all of this. What had been bothering him so much. Why, despite being on the winning side, he didn’t feel even remotely content, or pleased… or a winner.

What he was witnessing right there were acts of blind cruelty. It wasn’t clean. Not a single shred of decency to any of this -no wonder Ra’s al Ghul had denied anything to do with the whole thing ever since the beginning. Annoying as it was, Slade had to admit that in this case, the millennial had proved to know better than him. He had foreseen it. He had foreseen that, despite them winning… there wouldn’t be a victory

The more he saw, the less details he wished to know. What did it matter at this point, after all? He just wanted to grab what he came for and make his leave, never to return again.

He walked inside, through the wide-open gates. Such a statement, he though. They wanted the whole world to know that, now that Gotham’s protectors were no more, they feared nothing. No one. Someone could see it as a challenge, he supposed. _Come and get us, if you dare._

As long as it was nighttime, of course. He suspected they wouldn’t be as comfortable as soon as the sun rose.

A blood slave, a beautifully rounded girl with tanned skin, dark hair and full breasts, moved aside as soon as he crossed ways with him, letting him pass, head timidly bowed. The wet, blood-stained cloth in her hands didn’t skip his attention. Neither did the heavy scent, concentrated somewhere close.

Glancing at his right, towards a small room at that end of the hall, he saw, through the ajar door, two more slaves: a male and another female. They were on their knees, with cloths in their hands and a bucket full of water placed between them. They were maniacally trying to scrape what seemed to be a whole ton of blood off the floor.

“Insane, isn’t it?”

That insufferable stench of old, raw fish filled the air, and Slade slowly shifted his focus, turning slowly to look at Cobblepot coming down the stairs in those usual, clumsy, graceless steps of his. He did make for an… odd sight to say the least, everything about him coming in complete and direct contrast to the fancy, expensive clothes he was in.

He seemed to be in a good mood as he came down to stand by him, offering a sharp chuckle and pointing to the hard-working slaves with the handle of his walking cane, formed in a detailed, ivory figure of a penguin.

“Harley Quinn,” he explained. “Just this evening, before anyone else woke up. Grabbed one of Bat’s many silver knives and quite literally ripped her own heart out. Heh. You should have seen the whole mess. Ten days. That’s how long she managed to live without her beloved ‘Puddin’. Not that she was bad looking in general, but… to be honest, I’d grown tired of seeing those damn streams of blood tears in her face all the time.”

A deeply disturbed, stupid girl, willingly following her lunatic maker to a permanent grave. Slade didn’t find that amusing at all. Sad and pathetic, if anything.

“Welcome, welcome, my friend,” the man cheerfully greeted him, and Slade, who only had one single person whom he called a friend in his lifetime, barely held back from wincing in disgust. “We were starting to wonder when you’d show up. Pleased with the results? I take it you saw for yourself.”

Slade hummed. “Yes, they’re hard to miss. All six of them. Well done. Quite… classy.”

The smirk on the puffy, purple lips flickered, but didn’t disappear just yet. “Well, the world needs to know.”

He fought not to roll his eye at the ridiculousness of the statement. Both of them, and everyone else, knew that other than themselves and the blood slaves (humans that had no chance of telling anyone), not a single soul would ever set foot on the damn property so that they could see. As for them ‘knowing’… Slade believed Gotham’s current state and the thousands of refugees had sent the message to the entire world by now.

“None of this would have been achieved without your valuable contribution, of course,” Penguin offered as they climbed back up the stairs together. “What you’ve managed in such a short amount of time is truly remarkable. No one could have done better. I bet you’ve heard what people say; wherever Slade Wilson goes, death strikes. Deathstroke, they call you now.”

Cobblepot might have been a lot of things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. He’d figured by then that Slade was far from pleased, so he was trying to shower him with flattery. Little did he know that every word coming out of his mouth sent new waves of anger right in his head.

“Looks like you also suffered a few losses, though,” he casually pointed out.

Penguin frowned and grimaced. “Ah. Yes. You came across Bane.”

Slade nodded. “He’s _also_ hard to miss. Who else?”

He felt an unexpected, spiteful pleasure at how evidently annoyed his interlocutor was now that he had to answer that, to admit that the Bats and their supporters had fought a more than decent fight before their fall.

“Gordon took Freeze out, all by himself,” he reluctantly stated. “It’s probably why you didn’t come across a snow blizzard on your way here.”

“Impressive,” Slade smirked, and he was being honest. The Alchemists were incredibly hard to take down, and Commander Gordon was only a common man (to the best of his knowledge).

Penguin snorted. “About a dozen of his men took down Croc. Ventriloquist was found dead during the third day, killer unknown. And Strange, the idiot, fell victim to his own creations. You certainly know how he loved creating those damn beasts. He unleashed his last products of experimentation in the city during the sacking -werewolf and wendigo hybrids. Apparently, he wasn’t as good as he thought in controlling them. Batman took out all five of them, but not before they ripped their own maker apart. As for the damn Jester…”

“I’m informed. Came across Poison Ivy outside.”

Penguin didn’t bother to restrain a low growl, followed by a scornful snort. “She’s been acting weird for a few days now. I don’t know what to say. Some people are truly ungrateful,” he scoffed, before elegantly attempting to change the subject. “In any case, I suppose none of those is of your concern.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Just get me what I came here for, and I’ll be on my way.”

For the first time, he detected a tiny bit of well-covered hesitation. “Dawn is less than three hours away. There is no proper shelter for quite a long way, and you won’t be alone. You could spend the day. Leave as soon as the sun sets again.”

He despised the possibility of staying under the same roof (under _this_ particular roof) with any of them. However, he couldn’t but admit that it might prove necessary. Even if he chose to take shelter in the ruins of Gotham, he couldn’t have Robin unguarded while he slept. Even if he secured or restrained the boy, he couldn’t be sure that no one else would find him in his absence.

“Perhaps,” was all he gave.

“Excellent,” Penguin exclaimed, before pausing, slightly turning his head back. “Have master Dent fetch the boy, sweet thing.”

“Yes, master,” the pretty slave responded obediently, hurrying to do as she’d been ordered.

* * *

The sound of the door unlocking had Dick flinching off the fragile slumber he’d managed to drift in. Every time it happened, he felt his heart would stop right on spot.

A thick stream of light and cold air pierced through the darkness as the door swung open, bouncing harshly the wall. It was Dent this time -like most times. His tall, menacing figure made its way into the room and towards him. Dick, instinctively, curled up more to himself over the thin straw mattress he was lying on, swallowing hard through his dry throat. Trying to prepare himself for… whatever was about to follow.

“Up,” the man growled, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet, the trimmed blanket covering him slipping down on the floor.

Dick clenched his teeth, trying not to whine at all the aches rushing through his body as he was dragged outside. Harvey’s iron grip at his arm was the most subtle of them all. The most prominent being the sharp stinging, accompanied by that hair-raising tingling around all the marks covering his neck, and… and the dull, now permanent pain at his lower belly.

He didn’t feel his mind functioning anymore. Not really. Not ever since Barbara was gone as well. Since they took her away, and never brought her back. Since that last time when he got to sleep in her arms, with her uninjured hand -the one that still had all its fingers- rubbing circles in a comforting pattern at his back as she talked to him, telling him in a shaky voice that both Bruce and her would always be with him even if he couldn’t see them -those words only made him cry harder at that time.

Now he spent most of his time trying to distance himself from reality. To mentally be with her. With Bruce, with Alfred. With his friends. His mother and father. Somewhere else, anywhere else.

Sometimes, he’d even managed to achieve that. When they’d finished with him, and he was lying there, sad and sore, exhausted from screaming or crying (or from the occasional blood loss), curled up in that filthy blanket stinging his skin, tremors wrecking his body. Right at that point, when he was on the verge of falling asleep, something magical happened, and for a few moments he could see their faces again. Hear their voices. Their laughter. Feel their arms around him, embracing him warmly, cradling him. Sheltering him.

He loved that part much more than actual sleep, for that was when the dreams came, and these days, they were nothing but nightmares.

Harvey moved his hand to the back of his neck, gripping tightly, and shoved him through a door. The one to Bruce’s study, Dick realized before he stumbled. He managed to stabilize himself and stand in the center of the room, one arm wrapped around his chest and his hand curled around the other arm.

“There you go,” Harvey said as he passed by him. “Here he is.”

Dick had his eyes fixed on the floor. He… didn’t want to look around. He already felt eyes on him. Didn’t know who they were this time, or how many, but… their stares were already burning him.

He couldn’t know what was going to be the case this time. He never knew, until it happened. Until he was caught up again in one of Nigma’s sadistic games, where he had to solve each riddle he put up for him within a specific amount of time, or suffer the painful consequences; namely, ten minutes tormented by Black Mask each time. Or until he was pushed down a hard surface, with Harvey hammering viciously inside him, before he sank his teeth into his throat, or anywhere else he liked. Or until Penguin’s nauseating smell clogged up in his nostrils, causing him to retch as the creature’s flabby body entombed his down on some bed, making it so hard for him to breathe as Penguin did to him the same as Dent. It hurt less, but the disgusting elements added weren’t making it easier.

Whatever was to be the case this time, he at least wished he wouldn’t have to be drugged by Scarecrow’s toxins while it lasted. It maximized every ache, every terror, every single bit of despair, ten times over.

A pair of heavy, black leather boots came to stand right in front of him. Fingers traced his jaw, caching his chin between a large thumb and forefinger in mild strength, and tilting his head up.

Dick froze, barely holding back a gasp, breath dying in his throat, as his eyes were met by Slade Wilson’s icy-blue one. He starred at his imposing form, that was looming over him, and whatever was left from his heart sank even deeper in that bottomless pit of despair inside of him.

Shivers ran down his spine, but Dick remained mostly limp (he wasn’t able to discard the stiffness claiming his every muscle) as Slade narrowed his eye, scanning him up and down, before using the grip on his chin to move his head, left and right, inspecting his tortured neck. When his gaze met Dick’s once more, the boy tried to track down something, anything that would prepare him, the slightest hint as to what the vampire’s intentions were.

Slade’s jaw seemed clenched, but otherwise, he was expressionless. Dick got nothing. He saw nothing in there. Not a glimpse of anger, or mockery, or evil pleasure. No vibes of upcoming danger. Not that ravenous glimmering of insatiable vampire hunger. Not the sickening spark of twisted, perverted lust (painfully familiar to him, by that point). Nothing.

It did little to put him at ease. This was even scarier, actually.

“We obviously didn’t communicate clearly,” Slade then spoke in a deep, rough voice

Dick’s mind went blank, panic rushing all over him. He was unable to comprehend what Slade meant, what he was expecting him to answer, but then his chin was released. The vampire turned his back on him, and Dick realized the statement wasn’t directed to him. He could see them now, behind Slade. It was all of them. Roman was elegantly sprawled in an armchair, still like a statue. Penguin, seated on a chaise longue. Scarecrow, standing by the closest window, nervously shifting his weight from one leg to another, right next to Nigma, who was awkwardly swirling his cane around. And Harvey, arms crossed over his chest, and dark, sullen expression on his face.

“Are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word ‘unharmed’?” Slade went on, taking a step forward. “You must be. Otherwise, _this_ cannot be explained.”

Dick felt his knees shaking.

He wasn’t pleased. Slade wasn’t pleased. Whatever he was expecting, he hadn’t got. Now he was going to be angry, no doubt. Furious. Because of him -of something about him. He’d be punished for it. He would. By either him, or the others. Or both. And the rest of them, he knew by now. It didn’t make anything easier, or less painful, but at least he knew what to expect from each of them, more or less. He had no clue on what Slade might want to do to him, but, taking into consideration his experience on the battlefield, and all the things he intellectually knew about the vampire… when he was angry, he… he was violent. Extremely violent.

He dug his nails against the skin of his arm, a wave of nausea storming his stomach as the sheer thought of the most terrifying possibility made him shiver. If… if Slade’s satisfaction wasn’t contained on humiliating him, beating him, cutting him or drinking from him… if he also wanted to use him like Penguin and Dent did…

It clouded his mind and left him empty inside, blocking his throat. He wearily glanced up at Slade’s back, still unable to breathe properly. Looked at how… _enormous_ Slade was. Contemplating with terror on… on how big he would be… down there.

The agonizing thought of an unspeakable pain, terrifying and torturous beyond any imagination, brought tears to his eyes. Unable to cast them away, he dipped his head, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stop them from rolling down his face. Harvey hated it when he cried. It always drove him frenzy, for some reason, only making things worse for Dick.

He once more wished he’d died alongside Bruce. Beside him, where, even in those final moments, he’d feel proud, and safe, and loved.

Perhaps, whatever Slade had on store for him, would finally kill him. Perhaps then, he got to see Bruce, all of his loved ones, once more.

Perhaps.

* * *

“It took you ten, eleven days to get here,” Two-Face was the first one daring to talk back. “What did you expect?”

Slade was seriously tempted to lash at him and rip his heart out with bare hands. “We had a deal. I did my part. What did I expect, you’re asking? My payment. Intact, and to its entirety. You offered gold, silver weapons, blood slaves. I could have demanded all of those. Instead, I asked for one simple thing.”

“Well, here it is!” Dent shouted, unnerved, pointing at the broken little thing behind Slade. “He’s alive, isn’t he? In one piece. And he’s functional, too.”

Penguin, always much more diplomatic, and clearly aware of the increasingly heated tension, hurried to stand and interfere. “You are rightfully frustrated, of course,” he started off, cautiously. “This has been… handled… poorly. We might have… lost control over our natural instincts…”

Slade chose not to comment on how more than half the damage he was witnessing had nothing to do with their ‘natural’ instincts. “You ‘_might’_ have?” he dryly growled.

“We wouldn’t have to do that if we still had the girls,” Crane uttered defensively, before turning to angrily glance at Sionis.

“What, now it is somehow _my_ fault?” Mask scoffed, realizing that all eyes are now on him. “Are you forgetting that Catwoman slit Zsasz’s throat with her fucking _nails_ when he first tried to touch her? She was a feral cat! What else would you have me do with her?”

“Speaking like you got no pleasure from it,” Dent snorted.

“Oh, I never claimed I didn’t,” he assured, and Slade could _hear_ the grin under his mask, as he watched the man clasping at a necklace around his throat and holding it up for everyone to see.

At first, it seemed quite unfitting to the rest of his expensive clothing. Then, Slade realized the very reason why Mask was allowing this unattractive piece of jewelry to spoil the general picture was entirely intentional.

Ten long, human fingernails, as sharp as a predator’s claws, were hanging from it.

“I could get drunk on those screams,” Black Mask sighed, dreamily.

“You could have at least left the redhead alive.”

Sionis snapped at that. “Oh, no, no, my friend. I refuse to take blame for this one. I just finished her off. She was basically done by the time I got her! She didn’t even last half a hourglass! She was already drained! And it wasn’t _my_ fang marks on her pretty little tits! Credits for that go to Penguin.”

“As I said,” Cobblepot raised his voice, “there have been some miscalculations. But trust me when I say this,” he turned to face him once more, “there will be compensation. Anything you want… within reason, of course,” he smartly clarified. “We might not have any more of Batman’s clan to offer, but…”

Slade had turned his back on him before he finished his sentence. He took two strides and stood before the boy once more.

Robin’s eyes were facing the floor, and he was evidently shaking. The rags he was wearing, ill-fitting and ripped in various places, weren’t enough to hide the damage underneath. Bruises of all kinds. Scratches. Many sets of twin fang marks, from many different individuals, marring his neck (_and_ his wrists). Red marks caused by… different kinds of bites. The current paleness of his face made everything more prominent.

He couldn’t blame Ivy. A tortured child is, most definitely, one of the most disturbing sights anyone can ever witness. It was just… _wrong._ Wrong, on every single level. No child should ever have marks like that on their bodies. Children should have scratched knees or elbows from playing outside. Not _these_ things. And apart from the atrocity of the situation… intentional or not, this was an insult. An insult to _him,_ since they’d agreed that, from the moment Batman fell, the boy would be considered his.

Slade raised a hand and lightly gripped at the back of his neck. The boy went instantly rigid. He felt that if he took that hand away now, the kid’s legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.

“We’ll see to that,” he said, sternly. “For now, a private room will do.”

“Of course. Certainly,” Penguin instantly nodded. “You could use the cave -Batman’s secret working place. It’s quite comfortable. No one has been there for a while. You’ll find it impressive, I believe. The house has a whole labyrinthine system of secret crypts leading down there through…”

“Anything private will do,” Slade cut that short.

* * *

It was indeed impressive -to say the least; the underground cave where the secret passage behind the massive, marble fireplace in that very study room led to.

Right at that moment, though, he couldn’t care less about any of it.

The boy was clearly shaken to the core. Slade could hear childish heart pounding harshly in agony. He reeked of pain and primal, visceral fear, standing at the same spot he’d been when Slade removed his grip. Completely still, apart from the shudders violently jerking his body. His eyes were always down at the floor, his arms hugging weakly around his own form. He looked smaller and more vulnerable than Slade had ever witnessed anyone, ever. At least that’s what it felt like, at the moment.

He hadn’t signed up for that. He fucking hadn’t.

Slade expected he’d have to discipline -not _comfort._ He’d been ready to drag the boy with him, kicking and screaming, because _that_ was how he expected he’d been; frightened and sad, sure, but despite that, still stubborn and defiant as well. Fighting till the end, even in his defeat, spirit high and shining. He liked to believe that he saw things in people, and everything he’d witnessed of that boy up until that moment had been pointing to a similar reaction. But what he was faced with now, after everything that had been done to the kid… no. _This_ he could have never imagined. He had… no clue how to handle this.

Bill would know, had he been there.

He’d wanted that boy, ever since the first time he’d come across him in his brightly colored uniform. There were very specific reasons why he’d chosen him, out of everything else he could have asked for reward. And now, after what those beasts up there had done to him… he couldn’t see any of those reasons anymore.

Nothing of Grant’s defiance and strength.

Nothing of Joseph’s kindness and precious smiles.

Nothing of Rose’s wit and clever remarks.

It had been so, so very long since he’d last seen their faces or heard their voices -or Bill’s. So long that, sometimes, he could only vaguely remember what they looked like, even though they’d been present so often in his dreams. And then, a few years ago, all of a sudden, there came a little boy, a single boy, standing by the side of his most dangerous adversary, and ever since the first time they came across each other, Slade could somehow see all three of them in that child’s eyes.

Everyone always thinks they’ll be fine on their own… until they _truly_ are on their own. And eternity is a very, _very_ long time to live in solitude.

Right after he’d made sure they were alone, Slade sank down to one knee in front of the kid, taking a short breath.

“You can’t even look at me, can you?”

There was no response. The boy just swallowed, arms curling tighter around himself. Evidently terrified. Of the people upstairs. Of _him._

“Robin,” he tried calmly at first, and then, when this didn’t seem to get him a result, even more softly, “Richard.”

Sapphire blue eyes, still frantic and unfocused, yet mesmerizingly beautiful, shot up to look at him in utter surprise, and Slade stirred. Good. This was good. Encouraging. Not everything was gone. There might still be some hope.

“This is your name, isn’t it?” he went on. “It’s how your father called you?”

The boy slightly shifted his weight from one leg to another. “D—Dick,” he croaked.

Slade felt he liked the full name better, but they’d have time for that, later on. “Alright, then. Dick,” he agreed with a small nod.

He watched the kid blinking before managing to stammer a tiny whisper of, “I’m… I’m s—sorry.”

Slade’s eyebrows knitted. “What for?”

He realized soon after, due to the lack of any reaction apart from the nervous quivering of his lips, that the kid didn’t actually know what he was apologizing for. He just assumed it was what Slade wanted to hear.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, little-one,” he murmured. “You’ve been nothing but brave.”

Robin _-Dick-_ didn’t seem to believe him, and frankly, Slade couldn’t blame him.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about me, by your mentor… or by _them_. I sure as hell hope someone mentioned that I’m a man of my word, though, so trust me when I say that I didn’t ask for you to harm you or punish you for whatever reason,” he tried choosing the words carefully. “Wouldn’t waste time and effort like that. I do not enjoy cruelty. I won’t have to hurt you, unless you give me a very specific reason to do so… which I don’t think you will. If you just… do as I say, there’s nothing to fear. Understood?”

_Anymore,_ is on the tip of his tongue to add.

There’s a barely conceivable nod from Dick, and despite his preference for vocal answers, Slade recognized this was all the boy could offer, given the circumstances and his current state, so he let that slide too.

He gazed at the trimmed, saggy rags the child was wearing, and it just then occurred to him that the shivering might not have been caused only by fear. They’d been right in the middle of January, and the weather in Gotham was freezing, even without an infamous sorcerer like the so-called Freeze around anymore. As a vampire, Slade didn’t perceive cold as humans did. His kind did actually carry an instinctive preference and general fondness of warmth (they always felt more comfortable in such conditions) but cold was never an issue; they seemed to be adapted to it. And, since they weren’t in any immediate danger, they often tended to simply not think about it.

“You’re freezing, aren’t you?”

Not expecting an answer, Slade unfastened the leather strap holding his cloak in place and after taking it off his shoulders, he settled it over the boy’s, fixing it in place. It was a fine thing, made of black fabric, with a thick lining of wool at the inside and soft, bright orange fox’s fur surrounding the collar and upper part. There was a wide hood attached to it, as well as three different hidden pockets on the inside. It was comfortable and utilitarian, considering that he’d been travelling a lot and had to be on the way for long periods of time, but also, quite finely made. Elegant, especially for a mercenary’s standards. Slade wouldn’t deny himself those little luxuries. He worked quite hard to be able to have them in the first place.

The cloak covered the child like a blanket, edges and hem softly falling at the floor. Dick glanced at him, confused and completely stunned. In disbelief. It took him a while to raise his little hands and, very hesitantly, drag the cloth a little tighter around himself, even going as far as to cutely, timidly nuzzle his face in the soft orange fur. Despite that, there was still suspicion, uncertainty in his gaze.

It wasn’t surprising. Slade wasn’t as stupidly hopeful as to believe that, especially after everything the child had suffered, he’d trust him right away. Obedience would do just fine, for starters, and it didn’t look like this would be a problem. Yet still, Slade _did_ feel an annoyingly powerful need to further reassure him, to the best of his ability.

“I’m not trying to trick you, boy,” Slade growled. “I told you, you’re no good to me if you’re hurt. I _will_ take care of you.”

Dick inhaled softly. Summoning courage to speak, it seemed. “Why?”

Slade shifted. “We’ll have time to talk about that. Later.”

It was almost a relief, watching at least some of those marks disappearing under the fabric.

“How old are you?” he asked, impetuously.

The boy held on at the cloak a little tighter. “Twelve,” was the quiet answer.

Twelve. Twelve years old.

Revulsion seethed in his guts, and it wasn’t just due to his deeply rooted sense of possession, or the wrath of the insult the act of hurting the boy consisted against him. This, all of this… what happened to those women, those men… what happened to this boy… it was twisted and vile. Those acts reached a whole new level of cruelty, one that Slade unfortunately knew both people and vampires were capable of reaching in the aftermath of a battle or a war, but… he thought he’d properly set the limits, this time. He didn’t think they’d ever had the nerve to break their deal. Not this time, after everything he’d done in their service.

He had it under control… or so he thought.

He even doubted this primarily had to do with sexual pleasure. It was meant to be yet another form of torture. To give them the sick satisfaction of further humiliating their already defeated enemy, even after his own death, by degrading, destroying, defiling everything the man had ever loved and cared about.

His city. His home. His allies.

His child.

“This… wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Dick blinked at him, unable to process his words. Calmer now, that more clothes were on him, instead of off him, but still, too lost into his own fear. “Are you… are you going to… feed from me?”

There was no point in lying. If he wanted to start building trust, he’d might as well just set a foundation by being honest. “Yes,” he offered, “because it’s necessary, and because I want to. But… that’s just about it. Nothing _else_ will happen. Not now, not ever.”

The boy lowered his gaze. “Bruce used to say…”

He stopped abruptly, eyes shooting up at Slade’s face, wide in terror, like he’d just done something unspeakable. Slade wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been prohibited from speaking a single word regarding his mentor.

“Go on,” Slade urged him.

Once the words registered to him, there was a slight relief. “That… that it doesn’t always hurt,” he hesitantly uttered. “That it… can feel…”

Slade rose on his feet, making his way to the closest armchair, dressed in black velvet. “Good. Yes. He was right,” he assured the boy, sprawling back against it. “It doesn’t hurt, little-one. Not unless we want it to. They… wanted to. I don’t. Fear, pain… those things make your blood taste sour. It’s not my preference.”

Without giving it much thought, he stretched out a hand towards the kid.

“Come here.”

The steps were small and hesitant. That little hand slightly shaky, when it ended up into Slade’s own. He gently tugged the boy closer to him, and despite the obvious reluctance, there was no resistance to be met.

“There’s a sting,” he said, “and then everything goes calm. Peaceful. You’ll feel warm… content… light. Like you’re flying.”

Dick raised his free hand to push away a few black strands falling over his forehead. “I… I like flying.”

Slade exhaled, feeling the corners of his mouth almost incomprehensively curling up into something resembling a smile. “I’m not surprised.”

He straightened his back, fingers slightly moving to set the edge of the cloak aside, baring the kid’s marred throat. The sight really, deeply bothered him, enraging him anew. He just tried to remind himself that those _(most of those)_ would be gone in time.

He located a smooth spot at the junction of the neck and shoulder. Touched his fingers there, and Dick shivered, recoiling with a soft, broken, frightened sound.

“Remember,” Slade calmly noted, “I made you a promise. I tend to keep those. No pain. Just a sting.”

He knew and understood anything else he said would do little to calm the boy down more than he’d already succeeded by that point. They both had to accept that for now.

All he could do was prove to him that he wasn’t lying.

“You can close your eyes,” he quietly suggested, not to startle him. “It won’t take long, boy.”

Dick swallowed back whimper, pressing his forehead against Slade’s shoulder, and accidentally baring more of that side of this throat open to him.

So close now. The rapid, thumping pulse. The rushing blood beneath the skin. The irresistible warmth of life.

Slade unsheathed his fangs to full length and sank them down at the spot.

Dick gasped, stiffening impossibly, but interestingly clinging to him, instead of attempting to struggle. He retracted the fangs, and as soon as he took the first two or three careful sips, there was a soft, surprised little “Oh!” before the boy in his arms relaxed completely, within a moment.

It’s warm. Warm, delicately sweet, like salted caramel, a taste he only vaguely recalls from the depths of his memory, from back when life was flowing into him as well, two centuries ago. Sweet, salty and… pure. Unspoiled by the burdens, the pain, the guilts and mistakes, the sins of anyone that’s lived a least a little more of their lives. A child’s blood -innocent blood. All of those tastes, those feelings, profoundly prevailed against the faint sourness of distress that was, of course, to be expected.

It proved much harder than he expected to restrain himself from absorbing everything of what was offered. He only stopped, logic breaking through the delightful delirium of enjoyment, once he realized the boy’s pulse was weakening.

Slade, beyond satisfied, removed his lips from the wound, sucking a deep breath inside as he ran his thumb over his own twin marks, wiping away the last droplet of blood.

The child was in lethargic state by now, still clinging to him, though much more relaxed. Much more peaceful, despite the evident paleness on his cheeks. He crooned softly, turning his face into Slade’s shoulder when the man passed fingers through his hair.

“Flying,” came a tiny, dreamy whisper. “Like… flying. Flying Graysons.”

Slade had no clue of the meaning behind the words, but it didn’t really matter. Just a few moments later, Dick was breathing evenly, small puffs against Slade’s now blood-warm skin, having fallen into a deep slumber.

He stayed still, right in that place, cradling the sleeping boy to him, his weight barely noticeable. Almost pleasant, even.

His eye traveled across the room. There were two decorative, faceless, basalt mannequins standing over a wide, stone pedestal, resembling statues, one quite taller than the other, naturally, since they were dressed in Batman’s and Robin’s suits. His gaze got trapped on Batman’s long, black, cashmere cape, the high collar still perfectly fixed in place, the mask. He imagined eyes behind the two slits, looking back at him in… disdain. In proud, scornful contempt, _judging_ him.

Could be Batman. Could be Billy.

“Having fun, aren’t you?” he growled at the ghost he imagines occupying the suit.

He felt _tired._

Dawn was even closer now. His mind was heavy with the burden of the events. All he wanted to do was rest, leave everything hanging, up until next evening, but… No. No, he couldn’t do that. He had to take a few very important, very specific decisions… in a quite short amount of time. Most of those regarding Gotham’s currently ruling vampire clan, lurking upstairs.

One thing he knew for sure; neither him nor the boy would spend the day, or another night, anywhere close to them.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


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